A City of Wax - Episode 4

~Wax snatched up the watch and stuffed it into his pocket with the counterfeit coin, hurriedly thanking the man before dashing back outside. He hastily unchained his bike and fired it up, tearing out of the area. There was a very good chance that five thousand counterfeit shillings were now in the hands of Eilonia, and he needed to find her before someone else did.~

            The tires of Wax’s steambike screeched as he pulled it to a stop outside an upscale residence. He dismounted, leaning the vehicle against the base of the stairs. While the crime levels were not all that much lower in Central, Wax at least felt that in this particular area he could leave it unchained. The manor he now found himself at stood out impressively among the other buildings nearby. There was no telling how long it had stood abandoned before the Melothrir family had reclaimed it and breathed life into its dusty, forgotten corridors. At the top of the stairs, two large and heavy wooden doors stood before him. To the left of the frame was an ornate brass horn fashioned to look like a large iris flower. Just beneath it was a large button that Wax pressed, igniting a small phlogiston bulb on the panel. A voice echoed from within the iris horn’s bell. “Name and business, please?” it asked.

            “My name is Wax, I’m here to see Eilonia. Personal business.” Wax spoke into the bell. No response came from within. Instead, the large doors were pulled open and Wax found himself face to face with a familiar figure.

            “Well, if it isn’t one of my sister’s favorite playthings.” The wispy Riven man’s voice, it seemed to Wax, managed to achieve a level of aloof pretentiousness that exceeded even Eilonia’s. “You know, while it’s fairly commonplace to have groveling admirers come here to beg her hand in marriage, I must say I am a tad shocked to see you here, of all people. I thought you’d have caught onto her ruse ages ago.” He gave Wax a smile that was every bit as poisonous as it was charming.

            “Stuff your petty jabs, Gendrien. I need to speak with your sister.” Wax replied curtly. Gendrien chuckled and gave Wax a look of hollow pity that made his blood boil.

            “No need to be so hostile, Weston, it was simply an observation.” He sighed. Wax was already growing tired of this conversation.

            “I didn’t come here for your observations. I need to speak with Eilonia. It’s urgent.” He said.

            “Are you truly that addicted to her?” he asked with a bemused look, “how characteristically pathetic.” Wax sighed. He’d had enough of Gendrien’s game.

            “Gendrien, I can understand if you’re jealous that I’ve spent so many nights bedding your dear sister while you’ve so patiently waited your turn, but if you’ll be kind enough to allow me to speak to her I promise, I’ll get you a nice prostitute to help ease your ache.” He chided. Gendrien flushed scarlet.

            “You-! How dare you insult me and suggest such things on my own doorstep?!” he fumed.

            “Because I didn’t come to insult you, I came to speak with your sister. Now are we going to continue this little war of words until you inevitably lose and shame yourself, or are you going to allow me to speak to Eilonia?” Wax asked. Gendrien glared at him.

            “She isn’t even here. She’s attending the grand opening of a new event hall in a different part of Central. She’s giving a small contribution to the founders.” He said.

            “Where can I find it?” Wax asked.

            Glad to be rid of Gendrien’s company, Wax sped off toward the other side of Central. According to the information he’d managed to pry out of Eilonia’s nuisance sibling, the event hall was a brand new facility called the Aquatectum. For the grand opening, a large banquet was being held for honored guests and pledges. Wax had fully expected Eilonia to keep the shillings for herself and spend them all on baubles, but instead she fully intended to pledge them. The event was invitation-only, so if Wax was going to gain entry in time to catch Eilonia he would need to blend in a little better. Fortunately, he knew of a place nearby that had just what he needed. The owner there owed him a favor. He peeled off through a nearby alley for a bit of a detour.

            The event was in full-swing as Wax arrived outside the Aquatectum. Leaving his steambike parked a block away from the building, he arrived on foot to draw less attention from himself; at least less negative attention. His favor had been good, and Wax was sporting a dashing assortment of finery. His usual rough, brown, dark leather greatcoat had been replaced by a finely tailored, midnight black longcoat. Beneath it, he wore a comfortable silk shirt and stylish waistcoat, and a pair of dress pants to match his coat. His long black hair was neatly combed and styled, and atop his head was perched a fashionable topper. It had been a very long time since Wax had been dressed in such a way, and frankly he found that he preferred his usual greatcoat. Now all that remained was the matter of the invitation. Wax gazed through the crowd of guests outside the building. His eyes settled on two small groups near the entrance. An older man fished through his longcoat pocket and retrieved what Wax immediately recognized as a snuff box. He quickly and discreetly wove his way through the crowd toward him. The man gave the box a few taps before sprinkling a small amount of the contents onto his gloved knuckle. Wax slipped behind him just as he lifted the powder to his nose and inhaled- and then promptly sneezed. As he did, he bumped directly into Wax, who in turn stumbled to the side, lightly bumping into the man behind him. Neither man noticed as Wax’s practiced hand relieved the man’s pocket of his invitation. Apologizing politely, he excused himself from the group and headed for the entrance.

            The interior of the building was a spectacle to behold. Mosaic tile flooring created a delicate wave pattern across the floor in shades of pearly white and cerulean, and the walls were a deep royal blue. Dimmed phlogiston bulbs lit the room from all sides, and a string quartet played softly somewhere in the background. The true marvel of the building, however, was its ceiling, which was made entirely of water. Natural sunlight filtered down through a shifting, rippling mass of suspended liquid high above the floor. Nothing but air separated it from the room, but not a single drop fell from it. It seemed Wax had entered at exactly the right moment, as a representative of the company behind its construction had taken the stage. “The Aquatectum is a monument to the continued success of our company to take innovation to heights it has not seen since the works of the Paragons themselves.” He declared. “Suspended above you is sixty thousand gallons of the purest water, held in place by sheer vacuum force imparted by the design of the building. Think of it like holding the last drop of water inside of a straw. Place your finger over the top, and it doesn’t move. Of course, it took a bit more than a finger to keep an amount of water this substantial from falling.” His remark was met by sparse, polite laughter. “The airtight vacuum seal keeping those sixty thousand gallons in place is complimented by the infusion of our company’s most high-quality phlogiston, so that not a single drop will fall.” He continued. “In the daylight, of course, we have the natural light of the sun to augment our lovely interior lights, but for nighttime events, the walls of the dome are equipped with phlogiston bulbs that make the surface absolutely shimmer, as well as five different colors of tinted glass lenses.” He concluded. The guests seated around the large room applauded, and Wax slipped inside.

            He couldn’t be sure, but he swore for a moment that when Eilonia’s emerald eyes widened in surprise at the sight of him, for a brief moment they seemed to explore him. Wax’s own eyes did their fair share, however; she was stunning in her lapis lazuli halter bodice, matching skirt with the thigh-length slit, black pearl necklace and elbow-length gloves. “What are you doing here?” She whispered sharply to him, giving a quick glance to the stage she stood next to.

            “Stopping you from making an embarrassing mistake” Wax explained as he took her wrist. She resisted.

            “What in the name of the mechanism are you talking about?” she asked, attempting to pull away. Wax held firm.

            “The shillings you’re about to pledge are counterfeit.” He whispered, making sure hers were the only ears that heard him. She blinked and stared at him in disbelief.

            “If this is some kind of ruse…” she began, but Wax shook his head.

            “I have plenty of reason to believe it isn’t. Besides, it’s only five thousand shillings. A bit light for a typical pledge, wouldn’t you think?” he asked. She folded her arms and gazed at him critically.

            “It’s a bit rude to flaunt one’s wealth, no? It’s a fair amount, it doesn’t risk guilting those who couldn’t offer as much, and it’s still better than nothing.” She said.

“And nothing is better than a bag of counterfeit coins.” Wax said, producing the half-exposed counterfeit gold aurum. Eilonia frowned and reluctantly handed him the bag of coins.

The pair retreated to a table a fair distance from the majority of the guests, and Wax drew an aurum from the bag. He placed it on the table and slid his knife from his concealed baldric, scraping away a healthy portion of the soft gold near the bottom of the coin. Inside was simply more gold. Wax was stunned. “Looks real enough to me, Wax.” Eilonia sighed with a twinge of irritation. Wax placed the counterfeit coin on the table next to the one he’d just tested and stared at them.

“These are legitimate… He was paid in legitimate currency.” He said. Eilonia picked up the counterfeit coin and examined it.

“Where did you get this? Was it on him as well?” she asked.

“He had it hidden inside his pocket watch.” Wax said. He placed the real coin back into the bag and handed it to Eilonia. “This doesn’t make sense…” he said. He stood up to leave but Eilonia grabbed his arm.

“No, you can’t slip out now. The banquet has already started. You’d be too conspicuous, and you’ve already been seen with me. It would be rude, and reflect badly on me. You’ll simply have to stay and join me for dinner.” She said, standing from her seat. “I need to go pledge these. I’ll be back momentarily.”

When Eilonia had returned to her seat after her show of pledging the money on stage, Wax was still puzzled. He rolled the counterfeit coin over and over in his palm. “Still nothing?” she asked. Wax shook his head.

“I’m out of leads. This doesn’t make any sense.” He said. Eilonia wove her delicate fingers and rested her chin on them.

“Start from the beginning, then.” She suggested. Wax placed the coin on the table.

“I was on my way home after pointing Aluvard’s wife in the direction of your little scheme. I was about halfway back to my office when I felt like I was being followed. I heard someone draw a weapon, so I turned. He fired six shots, I fired one. He grazed my arm. I shot him through the heart. That’s when I took the weapon and his things off him.” Wax said.

“So someone hired him to kill you.” Eilonia said. Wax nodded.

“It definitely seemed that way, but why him? If someone wanted me dead, why not hire a professional? That man’s aim was terrible, he barely wounded me and he was a clumsy shadow. I knew he was there from the beginning. He made so many mistakes… the only thing that points to a hired assassin is that bag of coins. And then I found the counterfeit…” Wax stared at the coin. “…Eilonia, I don’t think I was the target.” Eilonia quirked a delicate eyebrow at him questioningly.

“He attacked you by mistake, then?” She asked.

“No…” Wax said, “I don’t think he was meant to kill anyone. I think someone meant for him to die.”

A City of Wax - Episode 3

-Episode 3-

~The lacing of her bodice slackened under his fingers before he even knew he’d reached for them. The stuttergun, pocket watch and bag of shillings lay on his desk. Each of them warranted its own investigation… but it could wait for now.~

            Wispy tendrils of smoke coiled and wove their way through the thin beams of sunlight streaming in through Wax’s bedroom window. His bedside table candle had burned clean to the holder overnight, and a single diehard ember was all that remained of the wick. Wax ran a hand over his face and rolled his head to the side. He was alone in his bed. He hadn’t expected Eilonia to stay for breakfast, but evidently nor could she be assed to put out the candles and lamps before she left. Wax threw his sheets off and swung his feet over. He tilted his shoulder forward to examine the stitching on his arm. His biceps and parts of his forearms were still streaked red from Eilonia’s fingernails; however it appeared she’d at least had the courtesy not to claw open his needlework. Wax pushed himself up off the mattress and groggily staggered to his bathroom.

            After a hot shower, Wax located a fresh set of clothes and descended the stairs to his office. He collected his waistcoat from his desk chair and slipped it on with his baldric, reaching next for his greatcoat. As he lifted it, he noticed that the tear in the sleeve had been expertly and stylishly mended with neat stitching. Wax couldn’t help but chuckle. She couldn’t have put out the candles, but she’d stop and take the time to mend a coat. He slung the greatcoat around himself and thrust his arms through the sleeves. As he turned to face his desk, however, his face fell. The pocket watch and stuttergun lay where he’d left them, but the bag of shillings he’d collected off the man was gone. In its place was a neatly folded note with his name written on it in a delicate hand. Wax snatched it up and flipped it open.

            “Weston. It was delightful to see you again. Our little visits are all too rare these days. Consider the purse a tip for mending your coat. You know where to find me.

            -Eilonia-”

           

            Wax gave an irritated sigh and tossed the note onto the desk. He would just have to do without. The shillings were evidence, but of the three pieces he had, they were the least important. He pocketed the watch, grabbing a pleap and a hunk of bread from the basket next to his desk. Biting into the pleap, Wax set about examining the weapon. He disconnected the ammunition clip and pulled back the slide, peering into the works of the firing mechanism. The interior of the weapon was nearly pristine. The gun itself was nothing spectacular, but it had definitely been purchased from a manufacturer at one point. Wax rotated the weapon, looking for any sign of a maker’s mark or manufacturer’s tag. Instead, he found a jagged, scuffed smear at the base of the handle. Whatever identifying mark the gun once had, it had been filed off. Wax locked the slide and pressed forward on the barrel, sliding open the casing and revealing the clockwork mechanisms inside. In addition to being well-oiled, each individual cog and flywheel was slathered liberally with a greasy substance. Wax recognized it as anti-corrosion grease meant to prevent the buildup of rust. It was commonly used by most manufacturers, but the sheer amount of grease in this weapon meant it must have been stored someplace where rust was more likely to happen: near the salt air of an ocean.

            Wax quickly reassembled the stuttergun and holstered it in the open sheath of his baldric. He knew of only one firearms dealer that close to the Arterial Ocean and that was in Meluan’s Gate. He hurriedly finished his breakfast and walked out the door, twisting the key in the lock behind him. He stepped around to the narrow alley next to his office building where a filthy old blanket hung surrounded by waste bins. Wax grabbed a corner of the blanket and threw it to the side, revealing an aged but beautifully well-kept Heartland steambike. Wax kept it covered with that old tarp to keep thieves and vandals away from it. He rolled it into the street and opened the fuel hatch. He had roughly forty pounds of coal left in the furnace; enough fuel to get him through about a day and a half of riding. He mounted up, twisted his key into the sparker lock and ignited the furnace, and roared off down the street.

            Meluan’s Gate was fairly quiet when Wax arrived. He maneuvered his steambike carefully down toward the docks and shut it off when he reached the boardwalk. The man at the counter smiled cheerily at him as he approached. “Good morning to you, sir. How may I help you today?” he asked.

            “My name is Wax, I’m a private investigator and I need to ask you a few questions.” Wax replied. The man looked moderately surprised and nodded. “Have you recently had anything stolen from your shop?” Wax asked. The man shook his head.

            “No, we haven’t. We keep the place locked up tight every night. We even have rotating guard shifts at all hours.” The man said.

            “Have any of your recent shipments been incomplete or tampered with?” Wax asked. Again, the man shook his head.

            “We’ve gotten exactly what we’ve paid for every time, nothing out of the ordinary. Why do you ask?” The man said. Wax frowned. He drew the stuttergun from his baldric and placed it on the counter in front of the man.

            “This gun came from your store. A man attacked me with it the other night as I walked home, and I’m trying to figure out why. He had no identification on him.” Wax explained. The man behind the counter picked the gun up and examined it closely.

            “I’m afraid the serial number on this stuttergun has been filed off… Without it I’m afraid I can’t even confirm that it was sold here. Not only that, but this particular model is one of our most popular weapons. People buy them all the time. They’re especially popular among goblins, which might explain the lack of serial number. They do all kinds of strange things to them, I’m afraid.” The man explained. Wax sighed and re-holstered the weapon.

            “Thank you anyway.” He said. The stuttergun was a dead lead, at least for now. Wax climbed back onto his steambike and sped off to follow the only other clue he had.

            The Gardenworks were a place Wax made a point not to visit frequently. The somewhat scenic mixture of barely-contained overgrowth and ancient gearworks frozen in place gave the area a sort of eery serenity and charm, but Wax never did like it. He preferred streets and alleys that didn’t require picking his way around roots and displaced cobblestone. However, regardless of his dislike for the area, it was where he now found himself. He chained his steambike carefully to a fence of iron bars surrounding a large tree and turned up his collar against the frigid cold. Another reason to hate the Gardenworks in the winter months was the noticeable temperature drop due to the nearly constant damp conditions there. Why the most reliable watchmakers in Nexus had chosen to set up shop here was beyond him. Their workshop lie just far enough in that he’d need a mechanic as well had he tried to ride in, so parting with his steambike was his only feasible option.

            He pushed open the door of the workshop and was immediately greeted by a wave of heat from the furnace. The lone watchmaker on duty looked up as he entered, and then went back to his work. “If you’re here to pick up an order, I’ll need to see the order number and the receipt. If you need repairs, it may take a while. Otherwise you’re free to browse.” He said. Wax placed the broken watch on the countertop.

            “I need to know who purchased this watch.” He said. The watchmaker sighed and put down his tools, making his way over to the counter. “A hand is loose and the glass is cracked.” Wax explained.

            “Let’s see that…” He said, picking the watch up. He opened the latch and examined the watch with scrutiny. “Well, it didn’t come out of this workshop, that’s for sure… We leave our maker’s mark here, on the inside of the clasp, just by the hinges.” The watchmaker held the piece out in his palm. “It’s a bit heavy for a watch of this size, actually…” He held it to his ear and gave it a light tap.

            “Something wrong?” Wax asked.

            “I’m not sure… I’ll need to get the face open.” The watchmaker said. He patted his pockets and fished a small key-like tool from one of them. Carefully inserting it into a small slot on the watch’s edge, he twisted it gently. A faint click came from within the watch, and the face popped open like a latch. Inside the timepiece, however, in place of a mesh of gears, cogs and springs, sat a single golden aurum. The watchmaker blinked. “I’m not certain,” he said, staring at the 100-shilling piece, “but I’d wager that’s why your watch was stopped.” He plucked the coin from the watch’s interior and placed it on the counter.

            “That’s peculiar…” Wax said.

            “More peculiar than you think, I’m afraid” the watchmaker said, peering at the gold piece through his magnifying lens, “this coin is counterfeit.”

           

“How can you tell?” asked Wax, eying the coin and growing more confused by the moment.

            “Firstly, the weight is wrong. Close, but wrong. Secondly, this isn’t gold. It appears to be some sort of alloy designed to mimic the appearance of gold almost perfectly- but I’ve been working in fine metals my entire life, and I can tell you. That is not gold. Here, I’ll show you.” He said, motioning Wax to follow him. He led the way over to a glass container of a yellow-tinted liquid. “This,” he explained, “is a special acid we use in the polishing process of gold faceplates we use in the production of our watches. It will dissolve most metals, impurities and substances, but refuses to touch gold. That’s how we make sure we use only the purest materials.” He said. The watchmaker firmly clasped the counterfeit coin between a pair of tweezers and lowered it partway into the acid bath. A cascade of bubbles violently erupted from the surface of the coin. When he removed it, all that remained was a dull metallic surface.

            “It’s nothing but scrap metal…” Wax observed. The watchmaker nodded as he cleaned off the coin and handed it back to Wax. He rolled it over in his hand and frowned. “In your professional opinion, how easy would this be to identify by an average shopkeeper?” he asked. The watchmaker shrugged.

            “Very few, I would say. I work with gold as a material every day, scrutinizing it, weighing it, purifying it. It would take an expert of fair caliber to recognize this for a fake.” He said. Wax snatched up the watch and stuffed it into his pocket with the counterfeit coin, hurriedly thanking the man before dashing back outside. He hastily unchained his bike and fired it up, tearing out of the area. There was a very good chance that five thousand counterfeit shillings were now in the hands of Eilonia, and he needed to find her before someone else did.

A City of Wax - Episode 2

-Episode Two-

~He searched the man’s body, retrieving a cheap, broken pocket watch, an empty box of snuff, and a purse containing over five thousand shillings- more than triple what he’d been paid earlier that night. Something was very wrong with this picture.~

Wax tossed the smoldering stub of his smog to the ground as he reached to unlock the door of his office. The air inside was stale and heavy with the odor of fire hearths and the puffers his neighbor was so fond of. Immediately, as he entered, Wax noticed the telltale flickering light of an open flame dancing around the corner of his office from the entry hall. The air around him was fairly warm as well. Even though his office was small, his fire hearth still took hours to warm the building, and his stove had been unlit for weeks as he’d neglected to buy any fuel for it. Wax knew for a fact he hadn’t left his hearth burning, and had extinguished all the lamps in the small building before leaving for the tavern that night. He closed the door silently and drew his revolver. He steadily pulled back the hammer, bracing his finger against the trigger and ensuring it made no sound as it caught. The door to his office room was not quite closed, and the light of the fire crept under the frame and into the entry hall. Silently, Wax pressed down firmly on the handle, silencing the hinges as he eased the door open.

His favorite high-back chair had been moved to face the crackling fire in the hearth. Wax trained his muzzle on the chair, about where a man’s head would rest, and quickly swept the room with his gaze. Immediately he noticed several things out of place. The papers on his desk, usually scattered, were now stacked neatly and set to one side. The key to his liquor cabinet hung from the lock. An ornate glass carafe of brandy sat on his desk beside a snifter filled with a healthy portion of the drink. Wax sighed and lowered his weapon, resetting the hammer and slipping it into his holster. “I’ve often questioned your taste in men, you know, but it seems I’ve underestimated the depths to which you’re willing to sink.” He said, tugging off his gloves. An airy chuckle came from behind the chair.

“And I’ve often questioned your taste in brandy. This cognac tastes like toiler exhaust.” A slender figure rose from the chair and turned to face him. Wax knew her flawless Elven face and earthy brown tresses anywhere.

“Have you considered perhaps that I might purchase finer drink if certain guests weren’t so frequently helping themselves to it while I’m not at home?” Wax asked.

“Oh come now, Weston, don’t pretend you aren’t happy to see me. Face to face that is, don’t think for a moment I didn’t see you in that alley across the road.” She drew another sip from her glass. Wax frowned.

“Eilonia, how many times must I ask you not to call me that? It’s Wax. Just Wax. Nothing more, nothing less.” He said, shedding his greatcoat. He winced as he pulled his wounded arm from the sleeve, sighing as he traced his finger around the tear in the leather. He tossed the damaged coat over the back of his desk chair.

“I’ve always thought that was a stupid nickname” Eilonia said, gazing at him over the lip of her snifter. “Wax…” she said, as if mulling over the word, “It just sounds so…” she paused momentarily as her deep green eyes settled on his bloodied arm, “…artificial.” She set her snifter down gently on the table beside her and moved to inspect his arm. The motion could scarcely be referred to as walking, however. Eilonia Melothrir did not walk; she glided.

Wax unfastened his waistcoat and tossed it onto the chair next to his greatcoat, sliding open a drawer of his desk and sifting through the contents. Eilonia gingerly tugged the blood-soaked fabric of his shirt sleeve away from the wound, examining it closely. “This is a gun shot... There are powder burns all around it.” She said, sweeping back across the room to his liquor cabinet. “Who shot you this time?”

“The city’s worst assassin” Wax said dryly as he retrieved a slender steel hook and length of thread from the drawer. “He attacked me with this.” He retrieved the man’s stuttergun from his holster and tossed it onto his desk. Eilonia returned to his side with a glass bottle of clear liquid and a rag.

“Where is he now?” she asked, soaking the rag carefully with the contents of the bottle before placing it on Wax’s desk.

“Dead.” Wax responded as he threaded a small hole at the end of the hook. Eilonia pressed the soaked rag gently against the wound, and Wax grunted. “The question now,” he continued, “is why someone wants me dead.”

Eilonia shrugged. “I don’t guess you’d make many friends in this business of yours.” She said, turning the rag over. Wax shook his head.

“It was more than that. Someone paid him to do this. I found a purse with about five thousand shillings in it on him.” He said.

“So he was hired. It still doesn’t discount my theory.” Eilonia said.

“Then why would they hire an inexperienced nobody?” Wax asked. “That man was no assassin. He may have been paid like one, but that was it. He nearly emptied his stuttergun. He carried his blood money on his person. He tried to follow me by matching my footsteps. Something isn’t adding up.” He explained. Eilonia removed the rag from his arm and placed it on his desk next to the bottle.

“All I’m saying is that people pay good money for stupid things.” She said.

“Like a sordid tryst with a seductive little minx at a run-down inn?” Wax asked. Eilonia responded by splashing his wound with the bottle. Wax clenched his jaw and hissed through his teeth. When the burning subsided, he took a healthy gulp from the snifter she’d poured for him and sank the threaded hook into the flesh of the wound. “Am I safe to assume you didn’t seduce him for his looks?” he asked.

            “First of all, I wasn’t paid. Prostitution is illegal in the city. You of all people should know that.” She began, “And second, I didn’t seduce him. He seduced me.” Wax eyed her for a moment before returning his attention to his needlework.

            “Oh, I’m sure he did. And I’m sure you had nothing to do with it. You simply wore that lovely bodice to assist your breasts in becoming better acquainted with your chin.” He said, having now stitched the wound halfway shut.

            “Believe what you will, Weston. The man never even fully undressed me. I never intended to actually bed him, though had your client and her brute arrived any sooner the entire evening would have been a complete waste.” She swept back across the room as she spoke, collecting her snifter from where she’d left it. “Fortunately he at least managed to get me stripped to my unders before they arrived, otherwise it would have looked as if we were simply having a nice chat.” She said half into her glass.

            “Care to elaborate?” Wax said, cutting the thread with a pen knife and returning the hook to the drawer.

           

“Thomas Aluvard is the head of one of the largest corporations in the city, and a noble, no less. His company is in direct competition with one of my father’s most profitable investments, and it’s no secret he intended to buy it out. However, it’s quite a shame he was just discovered attempting to seduce the daughter of his competitor while betraying his beloved wife… Such a mark on his record not only bespeaks a shocking lack of marital integrity, but a willingness to engage in such underhanded practices as seducing his rival’s daughter for personal business gain…” Eilonia explained. “I was so helpless to his advances…” she trailed off with a wry smirk on her perfect lips.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Eilonia…” Wax warned, standing from his chair.

“Oh don’t worry… His wife was so flustered that her husband had taken such shameless advantage of my trusting nature that she insisted I have this…” Eilonia produced an ornate glass vial from her pocket. A viscous, sanguine-tinted mixture filled it nearly to the neck. Wax recognized it immediately as elixir of immortality. Eilonia plucked the tiny cork from the vial and quaffed the mixture. Wax was familiar with the effects the elixirs had on Riven, though he remained fascinated with how immediately it began to show. Eilonia was practically luminous. She returned the vial to a pouch at her hip and approached him slowly. “Why so stressed, Waxxy?”

“I’m busy, Eilonia… in case you’ve forgotten, I was shot earlier this evening and I’m a little bit on-edge. I need to figure out why I was tailed.” Wax spoke firmly, keeping his cool as he remained wary of her.

“You need to relax, Weston… Take your mind off it for a while. It’s healthier.” She was standing right in front of him now. She placed her snifter on the desk next to his and gazed up at him. “Think about some other things for a while. For instance… Ever wondered how nobody really knows what happens if an Aven tastes one of those elixirs?” she asked.

“No. I haven’t.” Wax said, determined to maintain his resolve. She hooked a delicate finger around his collar and tugged him closer.

“I think there may be some left…” she said. Wax started to respond, but the voice in his head that was shouting at him to resist was immediately silenced when her lips found his. She was radiant. Brimming with life and energy, and Wax was dizzied. The lacing of her bodice slackened under his fingers before he even knew he’d reached for them.

The stuttergun, bag of shillings and pocketwatch lay on his desk. Each of them warranted its own investigation… but it could wait for now.

A City of Wax - Episode 1

-Episode One-

~A wise man once considered a piece of wax. He felt its surface, its weight, its solidity. But near to an open flame, all of those things were changed. It remained the same piece of wax, though his senses were now deceived by its new shape. To truly grasp the nature of things, he said, one must ignore the lies of the senses and focus on the use of his mind.~

    Wax slid the flat of his thumb rhythmically back and forth over the rounded corner of his smog box. The tin had once been brushed with a brass-colored hue, but that particular corner now bore a dull, silvery smear; his callused thumb had undressed it years ago. The familiar odor of a fresh-lit smog wafted over from the other side of the moderately crowded tavern, and Wax’s fingers ached with desire to open that tin and light one of his own- but he resisted. Instead he withdrew his hand from the pocket of his dark leather greatcoat and lifted it to sweep the bangs of his pitch-dark hair from his face. An aging, tarnished silver pocket watch lay open on the table in front of him next to a half-finished mug of ale. The Aven eyed it casually as he leaned against the back of his chair. The timepiece ticked softly, the delicate black hands indicating that the hour was near a quarter ‘till one in the morning. His eyes moved to the door.

    As if on cue, a Heartlander man in a dark coat hurriedly entered the tavern. His collar was turned up against the wind, though it did little to mask his identity from prying eyes, which Wax suspected was more likely the reason behind it. Wax’s dull blue eyes tracked the man as he quickly made his way to the bar and took a seat. The barkeep gave a familiar nod to the man and, as if by habit, placed three freshly washed shot glasses in front of him. He filled each in turn with an amber colored liquid from a dusty carafe, and the man immediately threw back the first. “That’s one…” Wax muttered to himself as he finished the remainder of his ale and collected his watch from the table. He stood up slowly, pulled his greatcoat around himself and made for the door.

    The stiff cold of the autumn night had grown bitter during his stay in the warm refuge of the tavern. He shoved his hands into his greatcoat pockets, closing his fingers around his smog tin and giving the corner a rub. Escaping the smell of the tavern had done little good to quell his desire to smoke, but again he resisted. A casual backward glance through the window of the tavern caught the gleam of the second glass hitting the bar top. “That’s two” Wax muttered to himself. He casually strolled to the corner and turned into the alley next to the building. He leaned against the wall, and drew his flintstriker from an inner pocket of his coat. Without removing it from his pocket, he snapped open the smog tin and selected one with his finger tips, clasping shut the tin and placing the smog between his lips. He casually rolled the wheel of the striker under his thumb, lifting a hand to shield the smog from the stiff wind howling down the alley from the street side. He paused as he heard the familiar clap of the tavern door shutting and gazed sidelong at the road. The man from the bar stepped momentarily into view, rummaging hastily in his pockets. His fumbling fingers located a pipe, which he clenched between his teeth as he jammed a pinch of shag into the bowl. He struck a kindle stick, carefully lighting the contents and giving two short experimental puffs before one longer one. He tossed the extinguished stick to the cobble, stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, and hurried on.

    As the man disappeared past the wall of the neighboring building, the smoke from his pipe drifted directly toward Wax. It smelled strongly of a pungent vanilla and immediately flooded Wax’s senses. He slowly lowered the unlit smog from his mouth and returned it to the tin, replacing his flintstriker as well. “That’s three,” he breathed as he stood from the wall and began to walk. The man in the darker coat had already gained quite a lead on him, walking at a much brisker pace than Wax kept, but the choking aroma of his pipe smoke lingered strongly in his wake. Wax maintained a sight’s edge distance between himself and the other man, but made sure never to lose sight of him for longer than the pipe smoke could compensate for. Twice, the man looked back over his shoulder, forcing Wax to casually slip into an alley or a doorway, but he knew better than to expect much more than that; suspicious men check over their shoulders, and those who don’t want to appear suspicious take care not to.

    After nearly eight blocks, the man arrived at an inn. It was a small, unkempt building with faded lettering on the placard hanging over the door. Wax watched through the large front window, remaining out of sight in the shadow of a wall across the road. Once inside, the man shed his dark coat and quickly gazed about the mostly-empty room. His graying hair and mildly aged complexion were a quite familiar sight. As Wax watched, from across the room, a figure stood. She wore a dark green bodice, a black skirt and a pair of black silk gloves cut off at the base of the palm. Earthy brown, lightly curled tresses hung to the middle of her back, and her lips were painted a vibrant red. Her features were immaculate. The man embraced and kissed her briefly before the pair retreated up the stairs and out of sight. Wax had seen what he’d needed to. He snapped open his smog tin, drew his flintstriker and with a satisfying drag, lit up.

    The crowd at the tavern had not cleared much when Wax returned. He discarded the stub of his smoke on the cobble before entering, and headed for the stairs. Fishing a key out of a pocket of his greatcoat, he clicked open the bolt of the third door down and walked into the room. A pale-faced Heartlander woman sat, red-eyed, on the end of the bed. An Aven man in a suit of piecemeal leaned against the far wall, burly arms folded across his chest. The woman looked up at him as he entered. “You’ll find him at the Copper Cog a few blocks from here” Wax said, closing the door behind him. “I’d estimate you have about an hour, maybe an hour and a half.” The man by the back wall snorted and smirked, and Wax ran his thumb over the corner of his smog tin. “Bear in mind,” he continued, “that estimation was drawn more on her behalf than his. Had I not been granted the opportunity to observe his mistress, I would have given him ten minutes at the most.” He finished.
    “Mister Wax, please…” spoke the woman quietly, “Thomas may be an unfaithful man, but he is still my husband.” She explained.
    “Though not for much longer, I wager.” Wax said dryly. “I’m only here to collect what I am due, Miss Gunderic. As for you,” he said, addressing the other man, “do what she’ll have you do with the husband. Don’t hurt the girl; she’s only a troublesome strumpet. Just send her on her way.” The man leered at him.
    “Prostitution’s illegal, might I remind you, Mister… Wax…” he grunted.
    “Did I say she was a prostitute? I believe the term I used was “troublesome strumpet,” and I would thank you kindly not to put words in my mouth. I put enough of them there without assistance.” Wax retorted. He ignored the hired man’s glare and turned back to the woman. “My fee, miss?”

    Wax waited for the pair to be well on their way before leaving the tavern. He idly gauged the weight of the purse of shillings he’d been paid as he stood in the cold night air. It was every bit of what he was due, to be sure, though it was still disappointingly light. Wax had accepted long ago that this kind of investigative work did not always result in an unprecedented windfall in terms of compensation, though he was growing very tired of these menial tasks. He was sick of tracking down cheating husbands, petty criminals and debt dodgers. He lit up another smog, pocketed his flintstriker and set off. It was nearly three in the morning by this point. Inconsistent sleep patterns were no stranger to Wax, and neither were strolls through the city in the ungodly hours of the night. However, as he turned down the next street, he began to feel as though something were amiss.

    The streets of the city were deserted and empty. He walked alone down the poorly lit streets as he headed home, though he was unable to shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone. Curious, he paused a moment and listened. Nothing but silence. He glanced behind, but the street was as empty as it had ever been. He tossed his smog stub to the ground and extinguished it with his shoe. He reached into his pocket, but his fingertips did not feel for his smog tin at first. Instead they pressed through the thick fabric, tracing the outline of the revolver that hung at his hip. The hammer was locked. The weapon was ready to fire. Feeling slightly better having confirmed this, he drew another smog from the tin and lit it, continuing on his way. When he began walking, however, he took a different pace: slower, at first, then more quickly, and then slower again. He listened as his footsteps echoed off the walls of the buildings lining the street. Suddenly, as he began to step forward, he halted his heel in midair just before it reached the cobblestone. A phantom footstep rang out in the street. Wax lifted his head slightly, and then heard the unmistakable sound of a weapon sliding against its holster.

    Immediately Wax’s hand flew for the grip of his revolver. The tail of his heavy greatcoat flew, catching the wind as he whirled to face his attacker, dropping to a knee and pulling his weapon with blinding speed at the same time. Wax fired. The sound of seven shots rang out into the night. Wax fired only one. The figure opposite him crumpled into a heap in the street. As Wax stood and carefully approached the figure, he slowly became aware of a burning sensation in his left arm. Reaching across to his bicep, his hand returned bloodied. One of the other man’s shots had grazed him, fairly deeply too. He allowed his left arm to fall slack as he moved to examine the corpse of his assailant. The figure was definitely a man, but no one that Wax recognized. A stuttergun lay on the cobblestone where it had fallen from the dead man’s hand. Wax frowned at it. A repeating weapon… Whoever this man was, he was no professional. A true marksman needed only one bullet to finish a job. This man had failed to do so with six. He holstered his revolver and scooped up the discarded stuttergun. He searched the man’s body, retrieving a cheap, broken pocket watch, an empty box of snuff, and a purse containing over five thousand shillings- more than triple what he’d been paid earlier that night. Something was very wrong with this picture.